


Just for Tonight

by Arbryna



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends With Benefits, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:56:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamsin needs a distraction from her feelings for Bo. Dyson needs the same thing. What are friends for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just for Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue taken from the show, from _that scene_ in 4x11. Title taken from Dave Metthews Band, "Say Goodbye".

It’s funny, really. There was a time in Tamsin’s life—a good long time ago—when Dyson would have been perfect. Hot, savage, knows how to have a good time…no strings attached. Maybe that’s why Acacia said what she did, why she teased Tamsin like Dyson was some schoolgirl crush or something. 

Or maybe Acacia knows the truth, knows what Tamsin wants so desperately not to acknowledge. 

And what would be the point? Bo’s already given up everything else for Rainer—and her history with Dyson and with Lauren are things Tamsin can’t even come close to competing with. She may be hopelessly in love with the unattainable succubus, but that doesn’t mean she has to volunteer herself for the pain of rejection. 

Which is why she’s here. She can’t deal with hearing any more about Bo’s destiny with Rainer, or the latest chapter in Kenzi and Hale’s whirlwind romance. No, right now she needs two things: booze and a distraction.

Dyson may have been head-over-tail for Bo for as long as Tamsin has known him, but he’s still a man. Tamsin has seen the way his eyes linger on her, remembers the taste of sweat on his lips. Maybe she can get his mind off of Bo, too…they can distract each other.

This could be good for both of them, or it could be the worst mistake either of them ever make. Tamsin throws back a shot and keeps her fingers crossed for the former.

His hands settle on her hips as she climbs over him. “Tamsin, I can’t even think straight right now.”

Even as he protests, she can feel him reacting to her—his breath quickening, the unconscious arch of his hips up into her own. She grabs his face. “Stop thinking,” she orders. She can’t think right now, doesn’t want to—that’s the whole freaking point of this. “You’re always thinking.”

He looks at her with this combination of desire and guilt, and goddamnit if he insists on _looking at her_ the whole time this might not work after all. She sinks her fingers into his hair, pulls his lips hard against her own.

“Come on,” she murmurs into his mouth, rolls her hips into him. She keeps urging him on between kisses, desperate to break down his resolve. “Come on, come on.”

When she feels his hands warm on her back, feels them shove up under her jacket, she knows she’s won. She grinds down against him, grinning when she tastes his tongue pressing into her mouth. 

This is what she was after. This is simple, easy, uncomplicated by things like love and destiny and _Bo_. She kisses him and feels his beard scratch at her cheeks, feels him growing hard beneath her, and it couldn’t be more perfect. 

Or it _would_ be, if she could stop comparing him to Bo every second. She remembers how Bo’s hands felt sliding under her shirt, how Bo was soft yet demanding all at once, all breasts and legs and lips and teeth. This couldn’t be more different, hard and desperate and rough. 

Tamsin kisses him harder, digs her nails into his scalp. She needs this, needs him, needs to take her own advice and stop thinking. 

His hands are rough and calloused, scraping lightly along her back under her shirt. It’s delicious, nothing like fingernails at all, and part of her just wants to stay like this, to hide in this simplicity and never face the shitstorm that’s coming. 

Dyson has other ideas. He grunts into her mouth as his hands close around her ass, holding her steady as he shoves the stool away from the bar. Boy must have some practice with this shit, because he doesn’t falter as he stands up, still holding Tamsin firmly against him. 

He walks them into the taproom, deposits Tamsin on a barrel before turning back to the door. She raises a questioning eyebrow at him as he turns back around.

“Gotta make sure the door’s locked,” he says with a pointed smirk.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Tamsin quips, leaning back on her hands and letting her knees fall open. His eyes grow dark, but it takes a second for her to realize that it’s not just arousal. 

_Idiot_ , she berates herself. Who else would he have done this with but Bo?

She hops down from the barrel, tucks her fingers into the waistband of his pants to pull him close. No more words—no more thinking.

It’s not long before he’s got her back up on the barrel again, shoving her jacket down her arms as he kisses her. Once she frees her hands she attacks his vest and shirt with fervor, yanking buttons open and running her hands down the bare muscled expanse of his chest. 

With the jacket out of the way, Dyson slides his hands up Tamsin’s shirt again. He gropes at her breasts through her bra, rough but just this side of pleasurable. She whimpers, sets her fingers to work fumbling with his pants. 

A deep growl rumbles in his chest as she takes him in her hand, warm and hard and pulsing. He’s almost more animal than man when he tears at the button of her own jeans. She shimmies her hips, helps him drag the material down to her knees, and then it’s up to her to get rid of them completely because his hand dives between her legs, rubbing at flesh that’s not as slick as it should be. 

_Come on_ , she tells herself, rocking into his hand. He’s smoking hot. She trusts him. She wants this. She wraps her hand around his cock, strokes it as he strokes her, tries to imagine what it will feel like pushing inside of her. 

Bo probably never had this problem. 

And just like that, at just the mere thought of her name, Tamsin can feel something tighten in her groin, can feel Dyson’s fingers becoming slippery and clumsy. 

Then they press into her, first one then two, and it’s good, so good, but not nearly enough. She works one of her boots off of her foot, slips it free of her clothes so she can wrap her legs around his waist. It doesn’t take much urging for his fingers to be replaced by hot, hard flesh. 

She groans, a needy wanton kind of sound, as his cock pushes into her, fills her. This is a dance she knows well—she should, she’s lost count of how many thousands of times she’s done it—and she tries to lose herself in it; in the press of his mouth against her jaw, her throat, in the inexorable slide of him inside of her. 

They don’t talk, not anymore. Everything is communicated with lips and tongue and teeth, with his fingers digging into her hips and her ankles hooked under his ass. He pants into sweat-damp skin as he drives into her, not looking her in the eye because he can’t, because he’d have to admit that she’s not Bo. 

Tamsin can’t blame him. For all her effort at not thinking, especially not about Bo, she can’t seem to keep the damn succubus out of her head. When her hand slips down between their bodies, it takes all of her willpower not to imagine that it’s Bo’s fingers sliding quick and rough over her clit. 

Dyson groans out Bo’s name as he comes. Tamsin pretends not to notice, pretends she doesn’t have to bite her lip to keep from doing the same as she tumbles over the edge. 

Silence reigns as Dyson pulls out of her. He tucks himself back in his pants, sets to work fixing his shirt. Tamsin follows suit, sliding off of the barrel and onto shaky legs to pull her pants back up. If either of them has tears in their eyes, they’re both decent enough not to point it out. 

When he turns to leave, something like panic flutters in Tamsin’s chest.

“Dyson.” He turns at the sound of her voice, his expression too complicated to read. Tamsin doesn’t know when she started giving a shit about friendship, but damn if she’s not terrified right now that she just screwed this one up. “We’re okay, right?”

A bittersweet smile touches his lips. “We’re fine, partner.” He moves back, wraps his arms around her in a hug that’s ridiculously chaste, considering what they just did. His breath is warm and comforting in her ear. “Thank you.” 

He gets it. Tamsin lets out a sigh of relief. “Good.” She plucks her jacket from a nearby barrel and slings it over her shoulder, tapping him on the chest with her knuckles as she breezes past him. “‘Cause I need to catch up, and the next round’s on you.” 

Dyson chuckles, obediently following her back into the bar.


End file.
